


Changeling Child

by willowscribe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Families of Choice, Family Feels, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, MtF Warlock Dowling, Other, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Warlock Dowling, nanny ashtoreth - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 18:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowscribe/pseuds/willowscribe
Summary: Warlock's a boy. And the Anti-Christ. And a changeling child, according to Mrs. McTavish.Of course, none of these things are true.





	Changeling Child

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AJfanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/gifts).



> I've been wanting to writing a Good Omens fic for a while now, but I hadn't managed to find the inspiration until I saw a post by CallMeCaptainOrSir (aka not-a-fucking-pogo-stick) on tumblr with a prompt for this fic. (I can't figure out how to edit in a link to the post, so if someone knows, please help!) All credit for the initial concept goes to them.

Warlock first hears the word “changeling” when he is five years old and scampering through the back hallways of the manor, down by the laundry he’s not supposed to go near. He’s hiding from Nanny Ashtoreth, so when he sees a large laundry bin, his first instinct is to dive into the mountain of clean but unfolded bedsheets. He peeks out from underneath a white duvet cover as Nanny strides past, only the faintest hint of a smile on her face. Warlock likes Nanny very much, even if Mom seems a bit frightened of her.

Two of the staff – cleaning attendants, _not_ maids, he’s been told firmly – follow in Nanny’s footsteps, whispering to each other. One is young, round-faced and rosy-cheeked, not having yet lost the last vestiges of baby fat as she slides into full adulthood. The other is much older but still strong, her graying hairs curling around her face from where they slide out of her bun. The two cleaning attendants head over towards Warlock’s hiding spot, but Warlock holds his breath and tries not to move, and luckily, they move over to the bin next to his instead.

“Strange,” the older woman is murmuring. “I swear, before the wee bairn came along, there was much less of this… nonsense afoot.”

“Mrs. McTavish,” the younger girl says, grabbing ahold of one end of a flat sheet and moving to help Mrs. McTavish fold it. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You’re new here, Katie,” Mrs. McTavish says wisely. “You’ll see.”

“Is it to do with the child? Warlock?” Katie says insistently. “You can tell me, I promise!”

They step together and Mrs. McTavish takes the ends of the sheet together while Katie stoops to pick up the newly folded section. “Indeed,” Mrs. McTavish says, trying to put on a world-weary voice, but failing because there was nothing she loved more than spreading gossip. “Strange things happen around the boy. I would call them miracles, but they’re just as often bad things as they are good.”

“Like what?” Katie asks, taking the folded sheet and moving to put it on a shelf.

“Oh, all sorts of things,” Mrs. McTavish says. “The girl before you, Marla? Warlock took a strong dislike to her. No one could tell why, but the next thing we know, Marla’s got some freakish strain of flu and has to be put in a quarantine! And the old cook, Leo? Warlock didn’t want to eat his vegetables, and the next day, there’s a massive infestation of roaches in the kitchen! Funny part is, they left all the food perfectly intact and sanitary… except for…”

“The vegetables!” Katie breathes. “Oh, there’s no way that could be a coincidence, could it?”

Mrs. McTavish shrugs half-heartedly. “Who’s to say? Leo was sacked, poor bloke, and the next day the roaches were gone just like that!” She snaps as if to prove her point. “Between you and me,” she adds, leaning in closer and lowering her voice, “I don’t think the boy much looks like his mother _or_ his father.”

“But Mrs. Dowling gave birth to him! Are you saying she cheated on Mr. Dowling?”

Mrs. McTavish seems to swell with importance as she delivers her final testimony. “No, lass,” she says in an affected hush. “He doesn’t look like his mum either, remember? Why, I think the boy must be… a changeling!”

Katie gasps, and Mrs. McTavish settles back on her heels, looking pleased with herself. “A changeling?” Katie repeats. “Really?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Mrs. McTavish says sagely. “His looks, all the strange things that happen around him, his name… why, even that nanny of his is a bit of a freak, don’t you think?”

At this insult to Nanny, Warlock can’t help himself. He leaps out of the bin, possibly giving Mrs. McTavish a heart palpitation, and says, “Don’t you talk about Nanny like that!” He stands imperiously, hands on his hips, only five years old and ready to conqueror the world. “She’s not a freak!”

As if on cue, Nanny Ashtoreth appears from around the corners, sighs, and moves over to scoop Warlock up. “There you are,” she chides Warlock gently. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Katie and Mrs. McTavish exchange a worried glance. Nanny turns and glares at them. “Can we help you?” she asks sharply. Katie and Mrs. McTavish shakes their heads in unison and turn to leave the room. As she reaches the threshold, Mrs. McTavish suddenly seems to stumble over thin air. She falls with a shout of surprise and lands on her side, and when she doesn’t move to get back up, Katie screams and darts away.

They both live, of course. Katie finds a job as a secretary and never attempts to work in domestic service again. Mrs. McTavish breaks her hip badly, and at her age, she’s forced to take an early retirement to heal from the shockingly extensive damage.

Warlock buries his face in Nanny’s chest and thinks that Mrs. McTavish might be right about him after all.

* * *

At ten, after much teasing from his peers, Warlock asks Nanny if she’s a boy or a girl.

Nanny sighs and sits down on Warlock’s bed, inviting Warlock to sit next to her. “That’s a hard question,” she murmurs. “Why do you ask?”

Warlock shrugs uncomfortably. “Some of my friends said you looked a bit like a man in costume, that’s all. And I know some people pretend to be the other gender and all, but I guess I don’t really understand why.”

Nanny closes her eyes. “Listen to me, Warlock,” she says. “You trust me, yes?”

“Of course!” Warlock exclaims. There’s no doubt in his mind.

Nanny nods to herself. “Then let me explain. There’s not just boys and girls in the world, you know. Most people are one or the other, but not everyone is, and that’s okay. What I am is called… fluid. It means I can be a boy one day and a girl the next, and I can even be a gender that’s not a boy or a girl.”

Warlock frowns. “That doesn’t make sense. How can you change genders? It’s just… the parts you’re born with, right?”

Nanny strokes Warlock’s hair. “Not quite,” she says. “There’s a lot of things that decide gender beyond having boy parts or girl parts. It’s what’s in your head that counts.”

“So what are you right now?” Warlock presses. “If you can switch around genders, you know?”

Nanny chuckles. “I’m mostly a girl right now,” she says. “Usually I’m a boy, but not always. I look a bit masculine because that’s the body I was given, and I don’t much feel like changing it, though I could if I wanted. A lot of people do, you know? But I’m just fine the way I am. No matter what anyone thinks, if I say I’m a girl, then I’m a girl.”

Warlock nods slowly. “So, if I was a girl tomorrow, that would be fine?” he asks cautiously.

“It would be fine,” Nanny confirms, pulling Warlock into a sideways hug. “Some people may be confused, like your friends were with me, but I promise that it would be perfectly fine.”

* * *

It’s not fine. At fifteen, Warlock trods through the pouring rain in the middle of the night, shivering without even a jacket to shield her from the London autumn that is so determinedly raging around her. She’s miserable and exhausted and so utterly, bitterly cold.

She doesn’t have anywhere she can go. She has no friends who would take her in her disgrace, and she doesn’t have a family anymore. Her fath- Thaddeus made that exceptionally clear.

Well. He’s not her father, is he? He had a test done and everything. They don’t share one drop of identical DNA. Mom swore that she never had an affair, but after the test came back, Thaddeus had even lease incentive to put up with her… peculiarities.

She remembers talking to Nanny Ashtoreth all those years ago, and it makes her want to weep. Nanny had been so warm and understanding… Nanny had been _like her_. More than anything, she wishes she could have a warm hug from her former nanny right now, but like many things in her life, things changed when she turned eleven, and Nanny Ashtoreth leaving was one of those things. She never found out where Nanny went after she was sent away to boarding school, but she’d come home the next summer to find no trace of the woman who’d effectively raised her. It had broken her heart.

All the shops that Warlock walks by are closed, their windows drawn tightly closed in an effort to keep out the relentless rain. She wraps her arms around herself and walks a little faster. She doesn’t have any plan for where she’s going besides _somewhere dry_ , so she almost doesn’t notice it when she rounds the corner and sees the oddest sight… a used bookshop, bright on the inside, its light pooling on the street outside the window and illuminating the slick cobblestone. The door is closed, but there’s a small sign on the window that says “Come In – We’re Open!”

It’s just past two in the morning and this bookshop is open. Warlock doesn’t even question it. She’s so desperate to be somewhere warm and dry that she opens the door and lets herself in without the slightest bit of hesitation.

The bookshop is quiet when she steps inside, closing the door lightly behind her. The shelves are all stacked in an orderly sort of chaos, and she can smell the thick dust of ancient texts in the air. In the corner, she can hear a fire crackling, and like a moth to a flame, Warlock gravitates over to the stone hearth.

Above her, she can hear footsteps, and then the sound of someone saying, “I know I heard that door open.”

A different voice follows, strung out and exasperated. “Why didn’t you lock up sooner?”

The first voice responds, sounding rather prim. “Well, I have to be open some of the time, don’t I?” The floor creaks above Warlock’s head, dust shifting ever so slightly, and then she hears steps on the stairwell.

“Oh.” A short, rotund man stops at the bottom of the steps. He looks vaguely familiar in a way that Warlock can’t place. “Whatever are you doing here, dear? Why, you’re soaked to the bone, poor thing.”

Another set of footsteps on the stairs, lighter this time, announce the entrance of the second person in the room. “Angel, what’s the matter?” the voice drawls before cutting off abruptly as the man rounds the corner to see Warlock. He’s skinny and pale, made of harsh angles and jagged bones. He only barely resembles Nanny, and yet…

“Warlock?” the man exclaims, and Warlock knows it’s her.

Warlock leaps to her feet and bounds over to Nanny, wrapping her arms tight around Nanny’s new figure. Nanny’s hands instantly come up to Warlock’s hair, his fingers tangling in her lightly-colored locks and pulling her in closer. “Warlock?” the other man exclaims from behind her, but Nanny says him no mind.

“Oh my darling,” Nanny murmurs into Warlock’s hair. “Whatever’s happened to you?”

Warlock pulls back shakily, her eyes red and her face blotched. “I got kicked out,” she whispers, the shame of it still roiling in her gut.

“Kicked out?” the blond man repeats from behind them. When Warlock turns to face him, she finally recognizes his features and exclaims, “Brother Francis?”

Brother Francis beams at her. “Good to see you, my dear,” he says genially. “It’s been quite a while.”

“Four years, give or take,” Warlock agrees, sniffling. “What are you two doing here?”

Nanny kisses the top of her head. “Well, that’s a rather long story.”

Warlock glances between the two of them, sees the utter adoration in their eyes, and understands. “I’ve got all night,” she says.

* * *

Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis are a demon and an angel, respectively. This somehow makes more sense than any other theories Warlock can come up with.

She feels slightly less comforted in the knowledge that she was raised by two divine beings who were under the impression that she was the Anti-Christ.

“Oh, you must meet him some time; he’s quite lovely,” Brother Francis – Aziraphale – says as he fixes Warlock a cup of tea. “Milk and sugar, my dear?”

“Just milk,” Warlock says softly. She has a thick, warm blanket wrapped over her shoulders, and she sits on one end of the sagging chesterfield, her head resting on Nanny’s shoulder. Nanny has an arm wrapped firmly around her. It makes her feel safe.

“Coming right up!” Aziraphale announces, and Warlock offers a fraction of a smile. The flat above the bookshop is cluttered with knickknacks and oddities kept in no real semblance of order, and it feels cozier to her than her childhood home ever did.

“I could kill them for you,” Nanny says idly, his voice low and oddly sibilant. “They certainly deserve it.”

Warlock thinks of her mother, a sherry-scented wraith drifting from room to room of the manor looking vacant and lost. She thinks of her father, blustery and coarse, never satisfied with anything in life, not even his own family.

“No thank you,” she says softly. She thinks that their present lives must be punishment enough. Besides, the fact that Nanny is willing to do so, demon or otherwise, means more to Warlock that the act itself could.

* * *

A salty breeze drifts through the air. Out in the garden, Warlock smiles to herself. She pats carefully at the mound of freshly turned soil, just like Nanny taught her. In the distance, she can hear the sound of waves crashing on steep cliffs. Above her head, a gull screeches.

Next to her, Nanny whispers threats to the begonias even as he weeds their beds. By the cottage, Aziraphale has set up camp under a brightly colored umbrella and is sipping a glass of lemonade through a bendy straw. His nose is buried in a book, but occasionally he glances up to check on Warlock and Nanny, smiling indulgently when he sees them both on their knees, caked in dirt and grass.

Inside the cottage, there’s a large stone fireplace, and on the mantle above the fireplace, there’s a family portrait of the three of them. Warlock is squished in the middle between Aziraphale and Nanny, grinning manically, her face flushed with laughter. Both Nanny and Aziraphale have their arms wrapped around her, and they’re making ridiculous faces at the photographer.

Warlock is sixteen, and she finally knows where she belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm feeling a little unsure about this one at the moment, so any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
